


.500

by brinicles



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Unresolved Sexual Tension, and then take their best winger for yourself so that you immediately lose in postseason, find yourself a forward who will play excessive minutes while you are injured, no smut this time just hockey feelings, so your team can cling onto a playoff spot, unresolved 2019-2020 nhl season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25795081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinicles/pseuds/brinicles
Summary: "Fuck," he mutters."Hey," Connor says from the doorway.He stumbles again. "Fuck," he says again.(Mar 9 2020, EDM vs VGK: You can keep the game alive, but the season dies fast as the year goes on.)
Relationships: Leon Draisaitl/Connor McDavid
Comments: 16
Kudos: 60





	.500

**Author's Note:**

> Mar 9 2020, EDM vs VGK: Connor McDavid out for illness, his seventh missed game since the start of February.

It's late by the time he gets back. His hair is still damp above his forehead when he cuts the ignition, the drone of the car radio fizzing out, his coat a crumpled lump on the empty seat next to him. His ears seem to ring when the engine dies — but then they always do a little, after a game.

The headlights glare up the wall in front of him, too bright, and he blinks the blur from his vision. He takes a minute before he unbuckles and pries himself out of the driver's seat.

The lights are on in the kitchen near the back of the house, but the front hallway is dark. He stumbles just inside, holding a hand to the wall to steady himself.

"Fuck," he mutters.

"Hey," Connor says from the doorway.

He stumbles again. "Fuck," he says again.

When Leon looks up, he finds Connor with his arms crossed, shoulder against the doorframe between the front hall and the living room. He's frowning in sweats and socks and a grey hoodie, soft against the winter-spring chill; the kitchen light glints off his hair, tips gold and messy. Something's playing on the television behind him, sound turned down to a muted murmur.

He could have been a — fucking — burglar, or something, Leon thinks at himself, annoyed. Then again, someone could be ransacking the living room right now and Leon would probably just turn around and go to bed.

"Weren't you — I mean your parents," Leon says after a moment, easing off his own shoes. Connor has a key for emergencies just like Nursey does, and obviously he trusts both of them, and yeah, sometimes they show up for no reason at all, but he hadn't really expected it tonight. Connor's parents are in town, for one thing.

Connor doesn't move. "I took a night off, they took a night off," he says. At Leon's look, he shrugs. "They just didn't want me around being sad and pathetic," he admits.

Leon rolls his eyes, brushing past Connor and into the kitchen. "Well, you are, so," he says. He drapes his coat over the back of a chair, tosses his keys onto the marble counter, starts on the buttons at the bottoms of his sleeves.

"No, I'm not," Connor insists, following him in.

"That's how my dad used to say it when I told him he looked angry," Leon scoffs. He opens the fridge to pull out a bottle of some sports drink, cracking the seal without checking whatever the flavor is supposed to be.

"Well, I'm not your dad."

"Did you watch?" Leon shakes the bottle a little, takes a swig.

Connor has his hands in his pockets. He sniffs. "Yeah, obviously."

"Then don't fucking lie to me," Leon grumbles, shutting the fridge door and yanking out a chair at the table. "S'a shitshow." They could've gotten it, almost got it, and they didn't, embarrassing mistake on top of bad line change on top of — whatever the hell that had been at the end, Vegas stealing it from under their noses while Connor must've watched it unravel on a high-definition screen in his living room. In Leon's living room, whatever. He glares into the bottle and drains half of it, grimacing at the taste: something orange-colored, sour and cloying.

"They're first in the division for a reason. We've gotta be better, but we got a point," Connor says.

"Yeah, yeah." Captain-talk. The Captain-talk that Connor always does, anyway; s'never him that gets on the guys' asses when they can't make a pass connect, can't buy a goal.

Connor moves around to the other side of the counter and makes a judging face at him — he can feel it, he can tell without looking — before sliding carefully into the seat opposite.

"How's your head?" he asks.

Leon glances up. "What?"

Connor's watching him intently. He looks — not great, but not awful, eyes a little red-rimmed. He seems pale and thin, but they all do in March.

"Your head was bothering you this morning," he clarifies. His face is schooled carefully, as if Leon's the one who'd been sitting out sick, as if Leon's the one who needs a check-in now.

Oh. "Sure. No, it's fine. Was fine." Headache, but not much. No excuse for that.

Connor doesn't seem satisfied. "You were on for a long shift there, at the end."

"Yeah, fuck lot of use that was." Leon sets down the bottle and scrubs at his face.

"You didn't think you could get off earlier?"

"I..." Leon groans. "I don't know." He'd been trying not to think about it before he got some sleep. God, what kind of — interrogation, why is Connor even in his house? To pick apart his play, right now? "Couldn't this have waited 'til morning?"

Connor is silent a second. "Listen," he finally says. "If your head is bothering you…"

Leon hears more than feels the bottle buckle slightly under his grip, his knuckles tight — "It _wasn't_ , okay? And you're not the one to tell me to get off the ice when something's bothering me. So why don't you — " He cuts himself off before he can say something unfair.

The words die in his throat at the sudden stiffness in Connor's posture and the look on his face, anyway.

Connor isn't — he wasn't — something's oddly tight about his expression, there. Leon had forgot how stormy he could look when he's mad. The sudden quiet makes the kitchen seem bigger, the walls colder, the golden light filtering down from overhead starker, shadows sitting on Connor's cheeks.

"Well I mean, I can't die from a wrenched knee," Connor says, flat.

Leon abruptly feels guilty.

_Fine, it's fine, I can play,_ too low to hear from fifteen inches away on the bench, block lettering and logos along the boards burned into their retinas. White and orange zipping around in front of them. Music drowning out the way the crowd had gone quiet, closer, louder than memory, better, brighter; Connor cares, that's all. Fuck him for that, then?

"It wasn't a hit," Leon says after a moment. "I'm probably just coming down with something. Same thing you've got, probably," he adds grudgingly. Not that Connor's told him what that is, so maybe it isn't so weird that he doesn't seem any happier.

Connor seems skeptical. "How's Yamo?"

"Nuge's looking after him." Still feeling the elbow to the face, maybe, but he'd seemed okay, and Nuge'd promised that he'd drive him home after.

Connor seems relieved. "Good. I uh, I texted him, but maybe he still had media."

"No, no extra media, after last time. Didn't you watch?" Leon flicks a finger towards the television where some car commercial is playing, landscapes and slick music and soothing voiceover.

Connor looks taken aback, and then clicks his mouth shut, abashed, like he should've known — and well, he should have, probably, if he was good enough to bust Leon's balls over the loss as soon as he was in the door. He'd watched the whole thing, obviously. But then he'd been lurking in his hallway for God knows how long, like he'd had a play to talk about even though he wasn't even there, and what, was he that concerned? They couldn't have looked that bad out there.

Maybe they had. "We can check on him tomorrow. I told him I would," Leon offers, and Connor relaxes a bit.

"Yeah, let's do that," Connor nods, plucking idly at his own sleeve.

From this close Leon can see the freckles on his bare throat, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the compressed line of his mouth. Connor, when he's ducking behind his hair and staring down at his hands, looks young. Weirdly young, maybe too young to be leading a team like this, even though he's been doing it for years, even though he's been meant to do it since he was born, probably.

Connor's not going, but he's not saying what else he wants. Leon's too tired to figure it out either, not the not-words between the English, and not the Connor.

NBA highlights and commentary are running on the network now, inaudible babble, white noise, and Leon finds himself zoning out, staring past the walls into nothing with Connor still right there. The heat on his skin is finally dissipating, empty house cold, sweat getting tacky at his collar. He needs some sleep. Everything is starting to ache with tension.

He shouldn't kick Connor out, probably.

"You want the guest room?" Unless he wants the couch. Or wants to sit at the kitchen table glaring down like an uncomfortable statue all night, maybe.

"Uh, no," Connor says, still directed at the countertop. "Not really."

"How'd you get here, anyway?"

Connor blinks. "I drove." At Leon's raised brow, Connor elaborates, "Parked down the street."

God, what? "You know it's gonna get stolen?"

Connor scoffs. "In this neighborhood?" No, not in this neighborhood, that's the point, he'd parked wherever the hell and there's probably no security there, just, at all. "I mean, I can get another one," Connor shrugs, like the cocky fucker he is.

Leon groans. "Go home, Connor," he says, sliding out of his chair and tossing the bottle into the bin.

Connor looks injured. "I thought you already had whatever I have," he says, like being contagious is the problem Leon has with him being here.

"That's not what I meant. Well, it is, but." Leon rubs his fingers aggressively through his drying hair. Connor's sick, why's he even driving around? "Why didn't you just call?"

Connor doesn't move out of his seat. "I couldn't do anything about it then."

"Do anything about what?"

He lifts a shoulder, easy. "Whatever it is you're not telling me about."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Leon says rudely.

"I can tell," he says, like that means anything at all.

"Aren't you supposed to be home taking care of yourself?"

"I'm better, it got boring."

"And you thought _this_ would be more fun?"

"Well, it's not a party, for sure, but."

"Don't you have Chel or something you could be bothering with then?"

"Eh, it's getting late."

Oh my God, Leon thinks. He grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes. Connor is not a human being. He's never a human being. No human being can be this annoying, specifically without meaning to be.

"I'm going to bed," Leon grits. "Stay if you want, you know where everything is. Food, whatever."

"Yeah. Did you eat?"

"I'm good," Leon says, heading to the stairs in the foyer. He'll probably be down in a few hours again anyway, hungry after the usual hour-long mental replay of the loss and when he stops feeling nauseous.

"Sorry, I can go if you were gonna make something. Or… I could order something," Connor offers, trailing Leon.

"S'fine." Leon starts up the steps.

"Practice tomorrow?"

Obviously. "Yeah, I'll be there," he says over his shoulder.

"It's okay if you're not," Connor says.

Leon halts mid-step.

He has to go back. Physically, back up, double-take. "Sorry, what?"

Connor looks up at him from the bottom of the stairs. "I'll go in and tell them you're not coming. I'll just say you've got what I had."

Leon stares.

"I can talk to Coach and the trainers. You need a day, you'll get one."

Leon closes his mouth. Opens it again. "No. Are you even going to be cleared to skate?" Connor doesn't say anything, so he tries again, with more conviction. "Could you imagine us both being out? That — that's exactly what can't happen."

"It's just practice." Connor shrugs again, avoiding his eyes. "You're allowed to miss a practice," he reiterates, like Leon isn't losing his mind totally.

"Yeah? When was the last time — _you_ skated _this morning_ ," Leon says, incredulous.

"I sat out the game."

"Did you ask to, or did the trainers talk to Coach?"

"I'm just saying, I — "

"No," Leon says. "Listen, if you could have been there, wouldn't you have been?"

"I'm — well I'm sorry," Connor says, suddenly small, before Leon can take it back.

That makes Leon feel like shit. "That's not what I meant," Leon says.

"I know you guys could've used my help — "

"No, that's — we didn't need you," Leon says, before he can really help himself.

Watching Connor freeze, Leon thinks, well okay, maybe this is one of those dreams where he just keeps fucking up and can't figure out how to make it stop. Four and a half languages and none of them can help him for shit here?

That would be better, probably. He could probably just wake up if it was a dream, and then he wouldn't have to stand here and try to figure out how to say what he needs to say.

Three things Leon knows he's going to come out of this season still wishing he could forget:

1) Last four digits of Ryan Kesler's phone number. Fucker.

2) That one game against Detroit.

3) Making Connor laugh at lunch in early April last year.

They were going to lose people. They knew that already. Every year they didn't make it, didn't make the playoffs, they'd lose guys. It'd happen the years they did make it, too, when that finally happened; that was just part of the game and they all knew it.

But last year it'd been different — breaths held, up in the air, all of them adrift with the strings suddenly cut, gone, a rotting limb removed and the body left weightless. There'd been something of anticipation, of dread, of waiting.

There'd been any number of guys who'd fought and battled and come and gone, the ones they lost and won with, all knowing they were going to land somewhere next season, here, or somewhere else, sometime else, better or worse. And then there'd be whoever was left.

Five years. Almost ten for some of them. How many of them had made it?

There was Nursey. And there was Nuge, and there was Klef. There was Leon.

There was Connor.

Always Connor.

And who knew, anyway, what would change? Maybe nothing. Maybe they'd be worse off than before, maybe gravity would come for them before they were ready, again. But this was the last time they were going to do this, here, now. The next time they saw each other — if, when, whoever was left — they wouldn't be the same.

It'd been before their last game. Leon can't even remember what they were talking about. Something about golfing, and the ocean and the time zones, and Instagram, and what 'no shoes' actually meant, and who the hell knows what else? But he remembers Connor looking over at him and _laughing_ , and he'd thought, maybe, maybe next year — there was a whole summer ahead of them. Maybe — maybe —

Yeah, he'd been stupid.

"I need to be there tomorrow," Leon says instead, and his voice comes out like a hiss, slightly thinner than it sounded in his head.

"Drai," Connor says, sounding tired now.

Leon refocuses, or tries. He clears his throat. "I — "

"Drai, will you just come down here?"

He realizes he's about to fall over, the way he's clinging to the railing and ducking to squint.

"I won't keep you," Connor says, and he turns around and heads back into the kitchen, and he sounds so fed-up that Leon does as he says.

Connor's hand lands briefly on Leon's shoulder as he moves past him at the counter. "Is there anything in your fridge?"

"No," Leon says sulkily, sliding into a chair.

Connor makes a face and opens the fridge anyway. He emerges with a loaf of bread for the toaster; digs a little in the cupboards, slides a pan onto the stove, adjusts a dial, goes back into the fridge for eggs. Leon doesn't stop him.

"Connor," Leon starts again, when he's picked his fingernails down to frayed stubs and it's evident he'll have to go first or go crazy. "You know the numbers, I — if neither of us is on the ice, we're not gonna have any room — "

"Well, we missed out on one point tonight anyway, and what? We're okay. Look at me," Connor says, closing the fridge door.

Leon looks.

Connor holds his gaze calmly, pointedly for a second. "We're fine," he says.

Leon laughs and ducks. "Don't do that. It's not fine."

"Well, okay," Connor concedes. He turns and flicks water into the pan. It sizzles. "But the longer you're on the ice, the further your utility drops, the closer you get to being injured. The chances go up. We can't afford that."

Leon snorts. "Did Coach tell you to say this to me?"

"No, I've been trying to say it to you since Boston came to town," Connor says, and there's something icy to his voice all of a sudden, something that makes Leon flinch. "You fell over. I was watching, I didn't need to be down there to see it. You fell over on your first shift, and you got up and you played thirty minutes and you got the point, but." Connor shrugs shortly and goes to dig around in a drawer for a spatula.

It — it sounds bad, when he puts it that way.

"That was stupid. It was just." Leon trails off. He barely remembers it, going into the boards. He can barely remember anything from that game.

He could have done something different that night. He knows that. He's thought about it before, and shoved it aside before, over and over, because those thoughts drag you down and keep you fighting an old game instead of picking up a new one, and he always tries not to do that too much. But he'd gone over that game in his head a million times, that loss, and how he hadn't scored, the fact that he'd been out there just to give up two goals just like that, puck out of reach and no gap, black and gold watching him knowingly from across the lines. The overtime could have gone different. If he'd watched closer, or been faster, or — or gotten off the ice.

Something must be showing in his face, because when he looks up, Connor's watching him in a strange way that makes him feel pitied.

"Look, I didn't..." Connor says. "You did great. I could have been there, I know, but — "

That stabs like a knife. "No," he says.

Connor usually knows better than to say that shit. It sets a bad example for the rookies, makes them think they need to play injured.

Neither of them are rookies anymore. "No," he repeats. "We needed to win that for you. We wanted to win _all_ of them for you." The words taste bitter in his mouth.

Connor looks taken aback. "Leon — "

Leon shoves the chair back. "If you can't — take time — for yourself, to — to get better, what kind of team are we? Fucking useless," he spits. He gets up.

"Hey!" Connor's tone is sharp.

"Sorry, but it's true, I mean." He hadn't meant that, but it's true, still, because — what's he been doing?

Connor doesn't know how it felt, watching him sitting with a pack of ice on his leg, listening attentively to Coach during intermission in full view of the whole team because all of them needed to see him, needed to know he was okay, really pretty desperately needed him to be. Standing with their backs to the crowd and waiting for the weight of the stadium silence, Connor bent over and his shoulders squared next to them, all of them trying to shield each other from the worst of it. And then the game ended and he disappeared to the trainers' room, slight limp, same — same fucking leg all over again, and all they could think was fucking shit, fuck —

Nothing that Leon's felt about this sport, and he has felt a _lot_ about this sport, nothing he's felt about this sport has ever matched realizing that they had Connor right there, of all the teams in all the leagues in the world, they'd _had_ him, and they could've lost that. Not because he wanted to go, but because they just weren't _enough_.

Leon's not going to say that it's not complicated about Connor, but just — Leon of all people shouldn't be fucking this up still. They'd helped him get to 105, they'd helped him get to fifty, and he'd paid them back by leaving them to scrape their Captain off the ice. What — what would they have done if they'd made the playoffs and Connor had been out the whole time? What'll it be like if make it this year, and Connor isn't at a hundred percent? What'll it be like if Connor's not _there?_

Leon needs to — he needs to be better. Shit happens, but not like this, not if he can help it.

He forces his hands to loosen their deathgrip on the countertop. "I know we can't both have a bad night at the same time, and. This one was on me," he says.

Connor turns the heat off with a click and sets down the spatula. "Drai, I don't care."

"What?"

"I mean obviously I prefer we win, but — " Connor runs a hand through his hair and exhales, frustrated.

"What are you talking about?"

It's Connor's turn to look momentarily agitated, flick of eyelashes and narrowed blue eyes on the move, working through something that Leon can't figure.

There's a way Connor empties his expression out, blank, that's funny when you know how to watch for it. People don't get why Media Connor is the way he is, low and monotone, half-hearted — but Media Connor is the way he is because there are things Connor is selfish about.

Connor doesn't look Leon in the eye when he speaks again. "If you're out for the season, we can't win. That's it."

Leon waits.

He waits a little longer, but nothing else comes, so he feels he needs to point out the obvious. "They'd still have you," he says.

Connor frowns to himself, like _eh_. "Not really," he says, shrugs. "Not all of me."

And then he turns around and picks up the spatula again, going back to work on the eggs.

Leon doesn't know what that even means. "Conn — "

Connor interrupts before he can start. "Listen," he says, his back to Leon. "I talked to Nuge. I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

Leon stops. "You're — what?"

A long pause, pan sizzling, Connor's shoulders still squared and angled away. "Just the last few games. That I couldn't make it work."

Leon squints. "What? Because of… the lines?"

"Yeah," Connor says.

Of course. "Why? Just because the roster changes all happened at the wrong time?" The last few games were a lot of shuffling, sure, and it'd been a while since that'd happened, but it wasn't like that was _new_. Nuge wasn't saying anything about it, but honestly why would he? Connor can't be on a line alone. Nuge gets it. It's always been him up there, after all, and Leon, and Connor. Always Connor. "That's not on you. Everybody needs time to adjust. We'll get some time in. The guys get it. I can work on a few things. We all can — " He makes a noise of disgust when he realizes he's falling into the rambling pep-talk pattern, like this isn't something they've both heard and regurgitated a million times in the past three months. "Why am I telling _you_ this?"

Connor's flicked off the stove now. It's kind of quiet aside from Leon's thoughts, and he realizes Connor isn't moving much, isn't saying anything.

"I'm glad you're my A," Connor finally says.

Leon stares at the back of his head. Connor turns around to glance at him, smiling now, just a tiny crook of the mouth.

A joke. Good.

Leon would do this even if he didn't have the A.

"Here," Connor says. "Eat that."

He slides a steaming plate across the countertop, a mismatched fork and knife following with a clatter. It's cold toast and runny egg. Leon's half-asleep and it doesn't look appetizing.

"I'm… I'm not gonna eat that."

"Well, you aren't going to make a better one yourself," Connor snorts, offering the pepper shaker.

Leon swears at him quietly, but reaches for the pepper, glaring. He plunks it down next to the plate, leans against the counter, and crosses his arms. "Okay. Are we done now?"

Connor looks pleased as he wipes his hands off on his pants. "Yeah. I'll call you tomorrow after practice," he says, and disappears into the hallway to find his coat in the closet.

Leon rises and scrunches his nose, chastised. "You sure you don't want the guest room?"

"Thanks," Connor calls, muffled. "Maybe next time."

Leon goes and stands near the front door as Connor slides his coat on, plaid wool dark in the shadows, humble Canadian boy from shoulders to thighs. He pulls a nondescript beanie over his head, probably something he got free in the mail, curls just barely escaping it beneath his ears.

Leon watches him bend to tie his shoes, waits.

"Hey — Conn," he finally says, and is suddenly unsure.

Connor straightens up and blinks at him, expectant.

The light is dim here, only the seep from the kitchen behind them catching Connor's eyes like a cat's, irises colorless and wide in the dark. They dart over Leon's face, curious. He's taken his hands out of his pockets and they're loose at his sides — body open, ready for contact, in a way he only gets for hellos and goodbyes, at the rink, in doorways, just like this.

There's a lot Leon could do now, like this.

It's never the right time, though. They're both exhausted and his head feels fuzzy and he's been like this for what feels like close to months now, and maybe it'd been easy once, he can't remember. Maybe it's easier when they're winning games, but they've won games before, so Leon doesn't know. He doesn't know if Connor even thinks anything is off, or not enough; if he gets the same feeling that there's something here Leon needs to fix. But he isn't at his best right now.

He can't just let Connor go, though, not when the house is empty and dark and they're coming off a loss, so when Leon reaches out, Connor wordlessly follows suit. And then it's not Leon's fault if he just — hangs on a little longer.

Connor lets him reel him in by the coat, like momentum bringing him around the corner, and when he buries his face in Connor's neck, Connor's shoulder is calm, steady. Leon hadn't expected that. He smells like winter air, burnt plastic, but also clean laundry, butter from the frying pan. Connor's fingers are tentative when they run up to scrub lightly at Leon's hair, just above the nape of his neck.

"You can sit the next one out too," Leon says aloud after a moment. It comes out muffled. "We'll do better."

Connor scoffs quietly next to his ear. "I'm four points back of a hundred," he murmurs.

"Once you get it, I'm telling Coach to bench you."

"Oh, so you're getting rid of the competition."

Leon snorts, and the sound isn't wet, at all. "Fuck off. Hog."

Leon doesn't hear whatever Connor laughs, and it's too dark to make out his face when they pull part.

The air slices at Leon's cheeks when the door opens, Edmonton night stinging, shattered glass on skin. He keeps his head ducked low against it. He doesn't watch Connor go.

The door closes quietly again and smothers out the frost. Leon stands in the hallway for a long minute, blinking at the dark alone.

He turns the lock. He heads back in.

**Author's Note:**

> [the third thing](https://jamesnealshands.tumblr.com/post/183988278764)
> 
> [Feb 19, 2020:](https://twitter.com/DimFilipovic/status/1230345129090637825)
> 
> "Leon Draisaitl's ice time since Connor McDavid got hurt:  
> 23:36  
> 24:34  
> 23:35  
> 24:24  
> 30:04*"
> 
> FEB 11: W — EDM 5, CHI 3   
> FEB 13: L — TBL 3, EDM 1  
> FEB 15: W — EDM 4, FLA 1  
> FEB 16: W — EDM 4, CAR 3 (OT)  
> FEB 19: O — BOS 2, EDM 1 (OT)
> 
> MAR 9: O — VGK 3, EDM 2 (OT) 
> 
> (i can now be located [here](https://en-aech-el.tumblr.com/)!)


End file.
